


Art for Its Own Sake

by Haldane



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BDSM, Dominance, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-03-19 06:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13699071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haldane/pseuds/Haldane
Summary: Holmes is dismissive of Watson's literary efforts one time too many.“To the man who loves art for its own sake, it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived.”The Adventure of the Copper Beeches.





	1. Chapter 1

_“To the man who loves art for its own sake, it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived.”_ The Adventure of the Copper Beeches.

It was shortly after breakfast in Baker Street, and I noted with an inward groan that Holmes had taken up his “disputatious” cherrywood pipe. It seemed that a fairly cutting criticism of my stories was in the offing. Most of Holmes’s peculiar habits and eccentricities I could live with, but his attacks on my writing could be genuinely wounding.

He started off mildly enough, but it did not take long before he was in full flight, defending the academic element of his cases against my emphasis on sensationalism. “You have degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales.”

_“Degraded!”_ I fumed inwardly. _“I’ll give you degraded!”_ But I only smiled and remarked: “Perhaps you are correct. But even as a detective must not only discover the truth, but also evidence to convince a jury, I must not only describe what happened, but also produce stories that will sell. The Strand is a popular magazine, so my stories are couched in a popular style. Maybe I should look elsewhere to place accounts of your work, so that a different style can be employed.”

I took a clean sheet of paper and wrote swiftly for a few minutes, then tossed the result to Holmes at the table. Holmes picked it up idly, but after scanning the page, began coughing and spluttering, while his face flushed.

“If I am going to be accused of sensationalism, I may as well have committed it.” I remarked, as innocently as possible, then plucked the sheet from Holmes’s fingers and read it aloud.

 

_Holmes rolled from the bed where he had spent a sleepless night and snatched his dressing gown from a chair. It was only just after dawn, but he had finally decided that he must get the early train after all. And he might well need Watson’s assistance, so he went to wake him._

_However, having pushed open the door to Watson’s room, he stopped in his tracks. The summer heat and humidity had obviously proved too much, and the nightshirt lay discarded on the floor, along with most of the bedding. Watson lay face down on the bed, entirely nude._

_Holmes’s gaze travelled slowly from the tousled hair on the head turned away from him, over the broad shoulders and muscular back, and was caught helplessly by the solid buttocks with their light dusting of hairs. He became aware that both his heart and breathing had increased their pace._

_“Morning, Holmes. Did you want something?” came the voice, familiar if slightly muffled._

_“I do now.” Holmes whispered, through lips suddenly dry._

 

“You know,” I continued, “There are magazines that would buy this, and pay quite well too. And since I’m making it all up, I don’t even have to bother about whether it was a Tuesday or a Thursday, or if we caught to 7:09 train or the 9:07, so it’s actually easier than writing accounts of your real cases.”

“No, that’s all right.” Holmes said, trying manfully for indifference and failing. “You’re used to The Strand, you can keep publishing your accounts there.”

“Very kind of you.” I answered, collecting hat and coat and heading for the door.

“Just one thing, Watson. Do you do this often?”

“What, write smutty tripe like that? I should think not!” I was laughing as I left.

 

=======

Holmes waited until the door was securely closed and Watson had clattered off down the stairs. Once certain of his privacy, Holmes carefully smoothed out the sheet of paper, and whispered to himself.

“No. I meant lie face down in your bed completely nude.”


	2. Chapter 2

By the time I saw my hastily scribbled page again, I had completely forgotten about it. Even then it was a complete accident that led to the discovery. I had simply dropped some coins from my hand, a few of which rolled through the open door of Holmes's bedroom. As I went to pick them up, I tripped over a loose edge of carpet and landed heavily.

I was not hurt, but it was enough of a shock that I lay still for a moment, getting my breath back. It was from that position that I saw something stuck to the underside of his dresser. I wasn't intending to pry; I just automatically reached out to see what it was.

He had built a false shelf onto the bottom of the dresser, visible only to someone lying flat on the floor, as I was. The shelf contained only a single sheet of paper, which I recognised as my own foolscap stationery. It was only after I drew it out that I remembered the lines I had so casually written.

I would have laughed, but Holmes had appended some writing of his own below mine. 

_Watson, your vivid imagery is both a comfort and a torment. Every day I clench my hands in my pockets to keep them from reaching to touch you, but at night I hold your imagined warmth in my arms until I sleep. I only wish I valued the rest of you less, your friendship and your company, so I might dare expressing my desires._

I wondered briefly if it had been deliberately planted for some reason, but given its concealment, I had to believe it represented his true private feelings. I read it several times, but could only make one interpretation of it. Then I noticed that there had been another line, written in pencil and then erased, leaving some marks on the paper. I rolled onto my back and held the sheet up towards the window, trying to read what had been there.

_I burn to utterly possess you, to sink myself deep into you, to fill myself with you._

When I worked out what this final line said, I could feel the heat rising in my face and I know I must have been blushing furiously. My emotions were in complete confusion. My upbringing insisted that a man should never think such thoughts about another man, much less express them in words, but under that was a certain gratification. This man, Sherlock Holmes, who could draw every eye simply by entering a room, wanted me. Fairly intensely, too, if his florid language was anything to go by. And even further down, I felt a tiny swirl of curiosity. 

I flopped back down flat on the floor and sighed. And a booted foot planted itself on my chest. 

"Really, Watson! Your situational awareness is abysmal. You should never become so engrossed in reading a sheet of paper that you fail to notice someone enter the room." His eyes held mine in a stare I found it impossible to break, and he was not smiling. "Especially when it's their room."

"Er, um, I'm sorry, Holmes. I wasn't meaning to come in, but I dropped my coins-"

He had obviously come in that very moment; he still wore his gloves and carried his familiar riding crop. He reached out with it now, placing it under my chin and cutting off my explanation. "And tripped over the carpet, yes, I know. The subsequent steps are obvious."

His foot was still holding me down. He was not pinning me with enough weight to hurt, but with his superior leverage it would be difficult for me to get up, until he chose to let me. He continued simply staring at me, and I found myself very conscious of the fact that I was in his bedroom, in a most ungentlemanly position. I thought of the words he had written, and felt myself blushing again.

He smiled at that, that thin smile of his with no humour behind it. "You don't do anything by halves, do you? Not even that endearing blush of yours." He pressed slightly with the crop, and I automatically tilted my head back, exposing my neck and the small visible part of my chest, both flushed as red as my face. I suddenly realised just how much I had gotten into the habit of doing whatever he said, without complaint or requests for explanations. 

It was very disturbing. Holmes allows so few people inside his walls that I normally felt privileged to share a rare moment of intimacy with him, but the sensuality of our current situation was something I had never sought. I was afraid of what he might do, but I had to admit that I relished having his total attention.

I think he must have heard the tread on the stairs about two steps before I did, for by the time I heard the knock on the door he was already moving. His foot came off my chest, and in the same movement he grasped my hand and lifted me easily to my feet. He pivoted gracefully behind me and with a small push between my shoulders I found I was standing next to the settee in the sitting room by the time Mrs. Hudson opened the door with the mail. Holmes was still in his room, the very picture of a gentleman concerned with nothing more significant than picking up a few dropped coins.

But in the split second between when I had gained my feet and Holmes had moved away, I had clearly felt his hard maleness press into me and I was glad to have the back of the settee to lean on, to conceal the trembling in my knees.


	3. Chapter 3

I would have been hard put to describe my mood as I came home late one evening, some time later. I should have been most comfortable and content, with a good dinner under my belt, more than my usual share of brandy and port keeping it company, and the half-hour spent afterwards at a whorehouse a level above my usual ventures.

But I was not. I felt restless and bad-tempered, with a sort of directionless anger and frustration. My friends had been good company over dinner, the restaurant service to a gentleman's standards, but afterwards... The women would have been more than acceptable to me as little as a month ago, but I had come away without leaving the reception room, unable to choose any of them for reasons I was unwilling to admit even to myself.

So I slammed the door of the sitting-room behind me and stalked across the carpet to glare at the fire in the fireplace, burning low at this time of the night. Holmes laid aside the book he had been reading and watched me in silence for a moment.

"Watson. Was the service at dinner that terrible?"

I only grunted in response. I did not look at him, and when he rose from his chair and threw his book at the wall with a curse, I literally jumped in shock. Holmes stalked into his bedroom, returning only a minute later, carrying a familiar piece of foolscap in his hand. This he shredded and flung into the fire.

"I knew it!" he said, voice harsh. "This is what comes of allowing emotion to dictate action. I should not have kept that damn note, but I did. I should not have become angry when you found it - no, not at you, at myself for allowing it to happen! - so that I acted towards you in that appalling fashion. And now it is too late to get back what it has cost me."

"Cost you? What do you mean?"

"Do you not see it? For it is you that is has cost me, your ease in my presence. I have seen heads of state, millionaires, nobility and murderers blanch at my glare, but never you. I think you are the only man of all my acquaintance who has never feared me. Anger, disapproval, confusion, I have seen on your face, but never fear. And now you tense at my approach and refuse to meet my eyes." 

That was all true, but it was not all of the truth. If it was simply a matter of not wanting his attentions I would have told him outright and either trusted his self-control, or moved into other lodgings. 

"It is not quite that simple, Holmes. You were, shall we say, rather intimidating, but if it had been only that I could have accepted it as another of your odd moments of whimsy." I forced a short laugh. "Or to put it in the best possible light, I could take it as flattery that I managed to provoke such behaviour on your part.

"However, there are deeper roots here. I did not intend it when we took up these rooms together, and I do not think that you did either, but over the years I have grown accustomed to doing as you say, and being what you wanted me to be. 'Watson, get up and get dressed, we have a train to catch.' Or, 'Watson, stay here, I'll be back in an hour.' 'Watson, note that down.' Normally I do not mind, your cases are often rewarding work, and certainly more exciting than keeping a general practice. So..." And I could not go on.

Holmes waited, silent and mostly hidden in the shadows beyond the fireplace. For once I was glad he had the gift of knowing when someone was not quite finished with what they had to say. I collected myself and forced out the rest of the truth.

"So since I found out what you wanted, my mind refuses to deny you. Do you know that I left a whorehouse tonight without finding any of them to my liking? I compared them all to you, and they all fell short. They were all too short, or too thick in the body. Their movements were awkward or gauche, their makeup garish, their conversation empty. And in their eyes I could see that they cared not whether I chose them or any other man did." 

"If you go to a whorehouse, Watson, you must expect to find whores." he said, but not ungently.

"Yes, but before I would not have cared. They have not changed, but I have. I am not a lover of men, and now it seems I am no longer a lover of women either." I fell silent, slumped into my chair, staring bleakly into the fire.

I was surprised when Holmes just laughed. "Ah, Watson, after all this time, and all the things you've seen and heard and done, I still have to wonder where you keep your naivety."

I didn't much care for being called naive. "That's not much of a compliment to a man my age, Holmes."

"Perhaps. But I did not meant it as an insult either. Who said you have to be one or the other, or that it is always all or nothing? Perhaps the gender of your partner matters less than you think." He gestured to a spot on the carpet, directly in front of the fire. "I would like to try a small experiment, with your permission of course."

I moved to where he asked, although I kept a careful eye on him all the while. I thought a grimace might have flickered across his face at my caution, but then he was standing with both hands on my shoulders and his face was completely neutral.

"Good. Now, close your eyes." His tone was low and warm, what I thought of as his "charming" voice, and I had seen its effectiveness on others before. When Holmes is certain of what he is doing, he carries all along with him. "Keep them shut. Now take your left hand and remove your right cufflink."

A simple enough matter, and only a moment to execute. But then he grasped my right wrist, and turned it over so my hand lay palm up. I felt his lips press against the inside of my wrist, not so much kissing as using the inside of his lips to mouth at the skin, warm and wet. I admit that I froze, suspended between shock at the thought that a man was kissing me, and the sheer pleasure of it, so gentle and delicate. I had always assumed sexual contact between men would be coarse and rough, as much as I had thought about such things at all. 

Holmes obviously took my lack of objections as permission to continue, since when I failed to protest his action, he pushed my sleeve up with his free hand and his mouth slowly trailed its way to the inside of my elbow.

It was warm and remarkably soothing. I could feel the muscles in my arm relaxing, and with the tension went much of my bad temper. There was also a distinct shiver of arousal along my nerves, especially after my disappointment earlier in the evening. 

"Well? Did you like that, or did you not?" 

I could not lie to him; he would already have read my answer in my very body. "Do you have to ask?"

"No, not really." And I could hear the smile I could not see. "If you remove your other cufflink, I will gladly attend to your left arm."

I knew that I should not permit it. But it hardly seemed that letting Holmes kiss me on the arm was a matter of great moral or legal impact. Surely another kiss was allowable, not some major carnal transgression. _Besides, you want it..._ my mind whispered to itself.

Standing as we were, with his body already between my arms, I could not reach my wrist without closing my arms together around him, bringing him even closer. I kept my eyes resolutely closed, but I could smell the scents of soap and hair pomade, and feel the warmth of his body. He stood quietly, making no motion to take advantage of his position, but still I struggled to concentrate. It took me several tries to remove the link, a task that normally would have taken no time at all. 

Holmes took his time with my left arm, obviously making the most of my current permissiveness. His attentions to my body drew me to focus on the here and now, and my frustration at my tangle of emotions receded. I felt so much better than I had five minutes ago that I could hardly believe the difference. 

"Back up a couple of steps, I'll steer you. Now sit down." he said, placing me on the settee. "Yes, I insist. There." 

Instead of seating himself next to me, as I had expected, he moved around behind me and knelt on the floor. He folded his arms along the back of the settee and rested his chin on them, so that his face was level with mine. 

"Now. I am not going to remove you from the settee, nor am I going to remove your clothes, or indeed mine. So there is nothing for you to be apprehensive about. All I want is for you to listen to me. No! Don't look at me, it distracts from your ability to listen. Keep your eyes closed." 

"Why?"

"Your brain processes sight with a greater priority than sound, and I want you to listen to me without distractions. And no more _whys_! Now remove your tie, and your collar. You can pass them to me if you like, I will put them out of the way." 

I did as he asked. After all, it is only what I normally would have done on coming home, if this episode had not disturbed my normal routine. But his next request was not normal at all.

"Undo all of your shirt buttons. Slowly, there is no hurry." His voice was soft, and I had to concentrate to hear his words. I knew he was watching to see if I was going to go along with him or not. It was a strange feeling, just like the blend of fear and excitement caused when one is "dared". I always had terrible trouble turning down dares at school, and with Holmes' assurances that I had nothing to fear... I undid the first of the buttons, and behind me he breathed out audibly. He made no other sound, but I could feel his presence, only inches away, as I kept going.

"Yes, that's good. Now stretch your arms up, pull it loose a little around the waist. Shift your hips forward a bit." His hands reached over the back of the settee to place a cushion behind my back, and to tweak the shirt further open as well. "Now touch yourself."

"Where?"

"Anywhere you like. Show me where it feels good. What would you do next, if you were alone?" 

"Well..." I began idly scratching my chest hair, where the formal shirt had been pressing it flat. It was more of a daily habit than a deliberate decision, something I always found pleasurable and relaxing. And from there I let my hands gradually drift downwards, scratching less and stroking more, where the skin was softer. 

I suddenly realised that this was one area where no man could claim to be a greater expert than I, and I was free of any chance of criticism or correction. Holmes could make all the comments or suggestions he wanted, but he could not call me wrong. The thought of him watching me, bound by his promises, caused a distinct stirring in my groin. 

I hoped he would miss it. I knew he would not.

My hands drew curves up and down on my torso, but when I went to undo my belt I heard a soft "Later" and felt Holmes shake his head slightly. Instead he chose to divert me.

"Do you ever touch your nipples?"

"My _nipples?_ Holmes, I'm not a w-"

"Yes, I know. Believe me, I know." His voice was downright lascivious, and I realised his breathing was a little more rapid. "But for many men, their nipples are just as sensitive as a woman's. Try it, rub them with a fingertip, or pinch them, gently."

I was more dubious about this step, but still did as he said. They did indeed tingle a little at the attention, and the same tingle echoed between my legs.

"This might help." And he took my wrist in his hand, and brought my hand to his mouth, drawing in the index finger only, sucking it and laving it with his tongue. Then, keeping his hold, he placed the wet finger over one nipple and made me trace small circles, around and around. 

I stifled a gasp as the bump stiffened, and felt the lightest of touches on the other side, his hand demurely remaining outside my shirt. His very restraint was wearing away any remaining objections, that and my rising arousal.

Now I was glad he had insisted on me closing my eyes. I felt I was aware of everything in the room by its sound, from the settling of a log in the fire to the creak of a floorboard as Holmes shifted his weight the smallest amount. There was also something else, something that struck me as strange.

"Holmes, I can hear you breathing."

"Well, I'm hardly at any great distance from you."

"Yes, but we've been this close before, and usually you don't make any sound at all. Oh..." and I felt rather foolish as the explanation struck me. "You're about to comment on my naivety again, are you not?"

"Did you think I was back here reading the newspaper to pass the time?" But his voice was more wryly affectionate than anything else. He took my wrist again, this time pulling it back over my shoulder and placing the fingertips against his throat, so I could feel his pulse beating in the artery there. Definitely faster than it should have been, going on his physical activity only. "Now forget about me, and pay more attention to yourself. Why don't you undo your belt?"

The belt was followed in short order by the fly buttons, but Holmes made me pause again when I would have pulled everything off. "Just the trousers. And if you push them below your knees and cross your legs at the ankles, you should get a bit of space to work in." 

I did as he said, taking my time to draw my hands back up the inside of my bare thighs. I touched myself through the remaining thin layer of fabric. This was not the way I usually pleased myself, but it was pleasant to take time over it for once. 

"Yes. Feel yourself through the cloth, and think about how it's going to be even better in a minute when this last barrier is gone. And one more thing - do not climax until I say you can."

This seemed a very odd request, but I had gone along with everything else, and besides there was no urgency at the moment. I continued to use my right hand, rubbing with the ends of my fingers and my nails since I could not close my hand around the shaft. By now it was eagerly bouncing up into my palm, wanting the solid grip I could not give.

I was breathing in gasps through my open mouth. My head fell back, and I moaned when Holmes brushed my ear with his lips. "Take them off. Let me see everything." 

I did as he asked - when had I not? - and was rewarded with hearing a hiss wrenched from him at the sight of my completely exposed cock. He bent forward and bit me in the shoulder, my arousal running so high that the pain registered only as another pleasure.

Finally given free rein on myself, I took a firm grip on my member and let my hand work at its own pace, squeezing a little in the middle of each stroke and occasionally running my thumb over the top. I do not think I had ever spent so long on reaching this stage before, and I was certainly ready for it. As the tension grew in my centre my awareness of everything else receded. 

I had no idea that Holmes had even moved until I felt a warm wetness close over the very tip of my erection. I opened my eyes in pure reflex, and found I was looking down at the back of his head as he knelt in front of me. My hips lifted of their own accord towards the sensation, but his hands pressed down on my thighs and held me still.

"Steady, John, steady. Keep your rhythm even..." he murmured, closing his lips again over the swollen head. He began teasing at the slit, just barely touching it with tiny flicks from the tip of his tongue, and I groaned aloud and twisted in my place. 

"Wait..." he warned.

"I can't if you do that!" I managed to gasp out, holding back but only with a great effort. I don't know if it was pity or cruelty when he stopped, but he rose gracefully from his knees to join me on the settee, sliding into the embrace of my left arm as if he had been made solely to fit there. His right arm was around my neck as I turned to kiss him, no longer caring the slightest about all the doubts that had plagued me earlier. Tongues and lips met and parted, and his mouth was as hot and his breathing as desperate as mine.

"Holmes..."

"Wait." His left hand was on my bare leg, slowly sliding in one direction only, up and inwards.

_"Holmes!"_

"Wait." And his left hand curled around my balls, applying a precisely perfect amount of pressure. "Now."

I took one more breath, and then the only word I can use to describe it is that I exploded. I actually could not see for a moment, and I lost all sensation of position and place. His right arm was secure around my shoulders, while his left hand caressed me below, squeezing as if to take every drop I had, and I think he got them all.

When I came back to myself, I was lying flat on the settee, clean and covered with a blanket. Holmes stood with his back to me, hands in pockets, gazing out of the window. I had no idea what to say to him, and looking at his stance, I suspected he had no idea what to say to me. 

"Holmes?" I ventured. I was not used to talking about intimate activities, but confronted with his rigid pose I instinctively tried to reach out to him. "I think I must concede you another point. The gender of one's partner is not the most important thing about them. That... that was wonderful." I trailed off into an embarrassed silence as my face burned. 

Even as I watched, his shoulders dropped a trifle, and he turned halfway around towards me, paused, and then resolutely met my eyes. Only now did I realise he had been afraid. 

"Wonderful?" he echoed. "That is a compliment indeed. I am glad that I suit you better than those uninspiring whores did." He smiled, the one with real feeling behind it that I saw so rarely. "And now I would think that you wish only to go to bed and sleep?"

I hesitated. We had been partners, even if in an irregular sense, and it seemed to me to be improper to leave with the pleasure so one-sided. "Holmes... What about you?"

"Do not worry about me." He dismissed my concern with a flick of the wrist. "You have given of yourself without receiving anything back on enough occasions before, I will not think you selfish if you take without returning this time. Surely you would rather retire."

Indeed that was all I wanted, and I implicitly agreed with a huge yawn and a stretch that cracked my back muscles, gathering myself together and heading for the door. Then I suddenly realised that I had the perfect exit line, and I paused.

"Does this mean that every time you ask me to put myself out for one of your cases, I can expect to be paid back in this fashion later?"

He was still struggling to find an appropriate answer when I shut the door. I went up to my bed, smiling.


	4. Chapter 4

I tried to pretend for a while that our encounter had made no difference. After all, Holmes had only touched me briefly, if intimately, and I had given him only a single kiss. But when I lay in bed on the following nights, my hands seemed lifeless without his whispered urgings, and even when I climaxed I missed the illicit thrill of knowing his intense stare was fixed on me. 

The nearest comparison I could imagine was eating out in an expensive restaurant, alone. The meal is exactly the same, but the _enjoyment_ of it is lessened.

I also wondered why he had done it; had it been only for me, had he received pleasure for himself from his actions, or was there some other reason I could not imagine? 

And would he do it again?

=========

There are few things that can redeem a bad day as thoroughly as a hot bath. Whilst I do enjoy the Turkish baths, with their steam rooms and massage, when I have the time, there is much to be said for a bath within one's home, thus removing the need to get fully dressed and journey through the streets afterwards. 

It had been a _very_ bad day. I had been out in much of it, doing my rounds in the continuous damp rain that caused so many cases of illness. I sometimes reflect on the irony that I am always busiest in the worst weather. Even after I got home, I was almost too tired to eat dinner. I could not seem to get warm, even standing directly in front of the fire, so after the minimum possible meal I headed for the sanctuary of the bath. 

I sank gratefully into the hot water, submerging as far as possible. The heat soaked deep into my bones from all sides, as nothing else could. I tried not to think, especially about problems; the patients I suspected I would lose this winter, the state of my finances, the persistent ache from my wound. I let them all drift away.

Unfortunately an isolated body of water in a tub does not stay warm forever. Eventually I had to heave myself out and begin drying myself off, but even out of the bath I still felt much improved. Now the most serious problem I had to face was deciding if I should simply go to bed, or put on a modicum of clothing and return to the sitting room for some reading.

I spent time over the answer to this weighty issue, since the steam from my bath had been sufficient to make the small room pleasantly warm. I stretched and twisted a few times, gave my limbs a bit of a shake, and then there came a rap on the door. Holmes, I assumed, since it was unlikely that Mrs. Hudson would disturb me here. "Mrmmrm?"

"Watson. If I could have your indulgence for a short moment." Holmes indeed. I sent up a fervent prayer that he was not about to tell me we had ten minutes to catch a train to some God-forsaken place. Wrapping the towel around my waist, I opened the door for him. I noted with some relief that he was not carrying either his gloves or a hat, although he was still in his day clothes, not yet having succumbed to dressing-gown and slippers.

To my surprise, when he came in he shut the door behind him and leant back against it, openly looking up and down my bare body. It was hardly the first time I had been half-naked in his presence, but his appraisal made me aware of it like never before. 

"Holmes? You wanted to ask me something?" I prompted, when it seemed that he was not going to speak.

"Ask?" he echoed. "Not exactly." His eyes locked onto mine, and I found myself unable to look away from him. He moved forwards, closing the distance between us, still intensely scrutinizing my form. I was equally attracted and frightened by his intensity. I took one step back, but there was really nowhere to go.

"Are my attentions disturbing you?" Holmes asked, stopping at about arm's length from me. He waited for me to answer; Holmes never asks rhetorical questions. 

"Your attention is not a light matter," I said, not truly answering him directly. "I have seen you turn your back on the Prime Minister himself in your own sitting room."

"I made a perfectly simple request of him, and he refused to oblige me. Why should I not turn my attention elsewhere? You must know by now," he said, closing the distance between us, "that I will have things done my way or not at all."

I believed I understood him now. "And you are here to make a perfectly simple request of me?"

"Indeed. And I hope that you will choose to comply with it." Holmes slid into the small space remaining between me and the wall, trailing his fingertips along my shoulders as he moved. "All I want is for you to release that towel you are clutching so desperately around your waist. I am curious; is the view of your body as fine from the back as it is from the front?"

I shuddered all over at his voice. It was like treacle poured over my will; sweet and yet binding. "Perhaps you should have used that tone with the Prime Minister. If you had I am sure he would have refused you nothing."

"I prefer to keep it for special occasions. It is _your_ compliance I am trying to gain. The Prime Minister is nothing to me. Well?"

I knew he would not continue without my permission, whether expressed or implied. I knew equally well that if I refused him, he would never approach me again. There was no third place to stand. I took one step into the centre of the room, and I swear my hand opened of its own accord to let the towel fall.

Holmes hissed audibly through his teeth, but made no other movement. I would have liked to have seen his face, but he had expressly asked for the view of my back, so I remained as I was. I did not hear him step forward, but suddenly his hands were on me.

Starting at my shoulders, he spread his hands wide and ran them slowly down my back. I would have thought they would feel cool on my skin, flushed from the bath, but they were warm and where they passed it felt like fire. There was no hesitation when he reached my buttocks, fingers bending to fit the curves as his thumbs dipped in between, where I had never been touched before. I shivered at the feel of it, and then he was past and moving down my legs.

At my ankles his hands slid around to the front, and started their journey back up. I was breathing faster in anticipation as he came up my thighs, still at the same slow pace, and then his fingers were brushing my sac and tangling in my coarse hair. My stiffening member he ignored completely, stroking my abdomen and spreading his fingers wide once more as he reached my chest, so that he could pass each finger separately over my nipples in a series of caresses.

Holmes pressed me back slightly, so I stood with his hands holding my shoulders back against his chest. He leant down and whispered into my ear. "Oh, yes. The view from back here is very fine indeed."

I shivered, and not with cold, and he crushed me against him, arms crossing over my chest while his mouth licked and kissed at my neck. I had to moan aloud at this touch, and lifted my hands, trying to touch him _somewhere._ Holmes laughed softly. "Use your hands on yourself. No furniture between us this time." 

"You want me to touch myself, and not you?" I was not unwilling to do as he said; it just seemed an odd thing to ask. 

"Are you refusing me?" 

"No! It just seemed strange. You do not want me to reciprocate your attentions?"

"I will tell you if I do." His voice was cooler than before, but I was starting to see the patterns in his responses to my actions. I leant my head back against his shoulder and began to manipulate myself, the feeling just as sweet and spicy as I had been missing, those nights alone in my room. But Holmes was not done exploring my limits.

"Kneel down." He threw my towel down onto the floor, giving me some protection from the floor, and I did as he wished, sinking back onto my heels. 

Holmes was standing over me; his feet planted either side of my hips, his hands resting on my head, caressing my hair. I turned my head sideways so that I could press the side of my face into his groin, feeling the hardness against my cheek and inhaling the scent of his arousal. I lifted my left hand, but he snapped "No!" so I let it fall back onto my own thigh. 

"No," he repeated, but more gently this time. "Not today, but perhaps someday. There will have to be certain understandings, but now is not the time. For now, I want you to pleasure yourself, and I want to watch it happen." 

I put his words into a corner of my mind to think on "later"; I was far enough along that analytic capacity was pushed aside in favour of simple instinct. I moaned and rubbed my cheek against him, and he laughed softly. 

My completion when it came was unremarkable except for his presence. I know that he noted every detail of it, and felt his hand caress my cheek and heard his voice: "Good, Watson, very good." I had pleased him despite the lack of physical evidence of it on his person, and I had that reward, given to so few, of his complete and undisguised attention. I did not feel degraded by kneeling at his feet, but more as if we were two halves of a whole, both getting more from our joining than we could alone, despite the disparity in roles.

He was all solicitation afterwards, helping me to my feet and collecting my crumpled towel from the floor. "You haven't got too cold, have you? I would hate for you to fall ill on my account." I almost laughed at the contrast to his usual cavalier dismissal of my needs, except that the difference was a pleasant one, at least in small doses. I had no real wish for him to change.

I suspected even then that it was just as well.


	5. Chapter 5

It is difficult, sometimes, to put decisions made on the basis of emotion into words. Our relationship was clearly heading in a direction most men would find inconceivable, yet I continued. I have never considered myself as a passive type, and if the subject had been raised in some idle men's-club discussion, I would have laughed at the idea of playing the role of a submissive partner.

But my body burned with desire for him, no matter what conditions he set. And the requests he had made so far had been acceptable to me: no grovelling or treating him as some sort of superior, just the acceptance that his was the only authority. I could have walked out at any time, but having chosen twice now to stay, the memory of the pleasure received set me quivering.

=================

It was the most ordinary situation that reopened the subject between us. We had returned home later than usual, to find Mrs. Hudson gone to bed after providing us with a cold supper and a fire laid ready in the grate. 

"I swear, that woman is an absolute godsend." Holmes murmured, investigating the table while I set about lighting the fire. I was kneeling down on the rug - after all, you cannot light a fire standing up - but when I sat back on my heels I bumped into his legs. I froze, suddenly conscious of the fact that we were in the same relative positions we had been in during our encounter in the bathroom. He was as close to me now as he had been then, and I wanted him.

I forced myself to stand up and speak to him face to face. "You-," I had to stop and clear my throat, and begin again. "You spoke of certain understandings." 

For a moment I thought Holmes was not going to answer me. He has never been very open about his emotions, but if he had wished to remain remote he would not be sharing the small expanse of the hearthrug with me. 

"You must have some idea of my tastes. I do not trade favours. If I take you, I will take you as I want, and possess you utterly. I may permit you to make requests, but I do not guarantee to fulfil them. And one more thing: you may end it whenever you wish, but while we continue, you lie with nobody else. I do not share."

"That time you found me in your room, and pinned me on the floor - that aroused you." It was not a question, but he nodded anyway. "And just now, when I was kneeling in front of you?" And he nodded again. "So you want an inferior."

"Watson! In God's name, no, it's not like that! If I wanted an imbecile to dumbly follow orders, I am sure I could find one; this _is_ London. What I want, and what is so hard to find, is an attractive, intelligent man of firm character who is willing to do utterly as I say, in private." He laughed, short and bitter. "And one I can trust absolutely. It is not a common combination."

"You said, in private, but what about the rest of the time? How could you maintain any public respect for a man who kneels naked at your feet in order to arouse you?"

"Easily. If it was a man I already respected, who of his own free will agreed to it, for the sake of what I would hope would be mutual gratification. I have no desire to cause pain, or to simply force myself on you and then ignore your needs altogether." His voice lowered, became softer and more persuasive. "I will decide what will happen and when, but ideally you will be more than willing to comply with my demands."

I was silent for a moment, thinking of the pleasure I had experienced when I had done exactly that, followed his orders and let him direct me as he would. I had always known that my intelligence, imagination and perception fell far short of Holmes's, but I had never applied the idea to a sexual situation. The other officers in India had sometimes spoken of certain courtesans who were famous for being able to do some curious trick or other, but surely none of them could outstrip Holmes for ingeniousness. 

I also saw that he truly needed me. He could not practice this art without someone to practice it upon; someone to act as both subject and audience for his abilities. 

Holmes continued, "I would not want anything to change in the rest of our lives - I need your strength, your intelligence, and your willingness to stand against me when you think me wrong." I saw the seriousness of his expression. "It is one reason I have hesitated in taking this further. I do not want obedience to become a habit with you. If the price of having you sexually is the loss of your character, then it is too high."

I considered this; he did have a point. But I countered, "Any sexual relationship we form would always have to be completely cut off from our daily lives. And that is your responsibility as much as mine."

Holmes nodded. "But do you understand how much I may ask?" He turned me by the shoulders, so I faced away from him. "What if I was to blindfold you?" he inquired softly, placing his hands over my eyes. I started to answer, but before I could his hands slipped down and covered my open mouth. "Or silence you?" I could feel both the delicacy and the strength in his fingers as he touched my face. I was torn between wanting him to linger there, and wanting him to use those hands to explore me further.

Holmes's hands were on my shoulders now, and he slowly pulled my arms behind my back. "Or bind you?" He held both of my wrists loosely in the long fingers of his left hand, while his right reached around and gently touched the front of my trousers. "Of course, the less volition you have, the more I must act for both of us." His lips brushed the side of my neck. 

"Under these circumstances," I gasped, "I am more than willing to let you have your way."

"So, then. Follow me." Holmes said, releasing me. His expression would have seemed impassive to another who knew him less well, but I could see the avidity in his eyes. Seeing that he felt as much desire for me as I did for him spurred my own arousal. And his voice... it was cool and controlled, a voice with not the slightest doubt that it would be obeyed. Between the authority in his voice and the lust in his eyes I _wanted_ to obey him, to give him everything he asked.

He strode towards his bedroom door, but as he passed the hatstand he leant over and pulled his hunting crop from it. I hesitated for a second, and he must have heard the hitch in my stride, since he turned to address me.

"When one trains a horse," he stated calmly, pressing the end of the crop lightly into my chest, "one uses a crop for the occasional rap or smack to get the animal's attention, or to stop bad habits from developing. No half-decent handler would simply lash away at an animal in his care, or use a crop to inflict damage."

Holmes seemed to be waiting for some sort of response, so I blurted out the first thing that came into my head. "So I'm a horse now?"

"I have not had a worthwhile mount for some time," and he smiled very slightly, "but I have high hopes at the moment." Then he turned away and led me into his bedroom.

"Strip." He said, flinging himself down in the room's only chair, and pointing the crop at me. "Not too quickly."

I found it harder than I would have expected, to disrobe knowing his attention was fixed on me. The "not too quickly" part was easy; indeed, I would have had trouble making myself move any faster. I reached my undergarments and stopped, until Holmes cleared his throat and tapped twice significantly on the chair arm with his crop. I somehow felt that this was the last moment as which I could change my mind. I could either back away or throw myself entirely into the situation, truly take down my barriers and accept his direction.

I hesitated for one more second, then pushed my underclothes down around my ankles, kicking them aside and standing up straight again.

"Congratulations, Watson." Holmes said, unexpectedly. "Do not think I am unaware of how difficult that was for you."

He rose from his chair and strolled over to me, examining me as if I was indeed a horse he was thinking of hiring. His hands slid down the long muscles in my back, then came to rest on my hips while he slowly and thoroughly kissed the back of my neck. I have no idea how he had deduced that it was one of my favourite spots to be touched, but I was not surprised that he had. 

I was suddenly alarmed to think what else he may have perceived already about what I found arousing, and silently cursed his abilities when he laughed. "Put your hands on top of your head," he ordered. A small change in posture, surely, but it made me feel ridiculously vulnerable. His hands stroked across my abdomen, and I flinched. 

Holmes _tsked_ , and his hands vanished. "I did say that the crop is used to prevent bad habits," he said, casually, "and I will not have you jumping away at a simple touch. Put your hands on your knees."

I did as he said, since I was committed to playing out my role now, although I felt ridiculous in that position. This changed when Holmes, instead of delivering the smack I expected, caressed me with both hands, stroking, then squeezing firmly to feel the muscles.

"Mmmmm. Remind me, Watson, not to use cabs too much on my cases. It would be a shame if you got lazy and let this handsome set of buttocks get all flabby." Then in one smooth motion he stepped back a pace and smacked me sharply across the right cheek. 

It stung rather than hurt, less of a blow than I had received on numerous occasions at school. Holmes placed one finger gently next to it. "How did that feel?"

"It stings, but I do not think I am mortally injured." 

Holmes laughed. "In that case, back as you were."

I straightened up, determined this time to do better, especially with the advantage of foreknowledge. His hands returned to my abdomen, then rose unerringly to find my nipples, which he tweaked and caressed with skilful fingers. My nipples tightened into hard bumps, matching my already hard member. It stood fully erect, wanting the physical attention that it was not receiving. 

Holmes paid it no mind. Instead he lifted his right hand to my mouth, thumb and index finger forwards, and ordered: "Lick." He repeated this with his left hand, and continued his teasing, the wetness making the feeling even more intense. I breathed more deeply, just to press my chest into his hands in a mute plea for more. 

"It seems you are attempting to influence my actions," Holmes observed. "I think a degree of immobilization is required. Kneel, there, and put your hands behind your back."

I knelt where he pointed, facing the bed but a couple of feet away from it. I did not realize Holmes had any reason for choosing that spot over any other until he pushed me between the shoulders and pressed me down onto his bed. I was not lying on the bed, but only resting my face and shoulders there, leaving my aching member hanging out in empty space, unable to make contact against any surface.

I could see why Holmes had been so serious about clarifying his tastes before proceeding, when he took a cravat from the clothes-stand and bound my wrists together with it. Since he had specifically mentioned binding me, I was not taken completely by surprise, but I was not entirely comfortable either. The discomfort was purely mental; the cravat was not overly tight, and did not chafe like a rope might. I pulled slightly against the binding once or twice, and decided I could get used to it. 

"Is that acceptable to you?" Holmes asked. "I will not always ask you, but I am making some allowances, considering the situation." I assured him that I was able to cope, and he crossed the room to do something I could not make out.

He did not leave me waiting for long. He dragged the chair close in behind me and seated himself. "Move your knees a little further apart," he said, tapping me on the inside of one leg with his crop. "And no tightening up." He touched me with the crop again, this time drawing the leather loop slowly down my spine. I breathed out, and swore silently to keep my body as relaxed as I could.

It was just as well that I made such a resolution, for Holmes had fetched a phial of oil from his dresser, and having warmed it between his hands poured it very slowly into the cleft of my buttocks, slowly enough that I could feel it trickling down inch by inch. The feeling was intensely ominous - I could think of only one reason for the oil, and though I had agreed to it, I was still nervous - but also intensely erotic, as the oil spread over the skin of my sac and began to drip down the inside of my thighs.

"Now you are thinking that I am going to take you, tonight, but I am merely looking, and anticipating. Indeed, I will not even touch you." Holmes paused for a moment. "Not with my hands, that is." And he placed the leather loop of the crop on that small plain square of skin known as the perineum. With a delicate touch he began to massage the oil into my skin, dragging the loop back and forth over my sac, occasionally reaching as far as the very base of my member, but more often just falling short.

The oil softened the leather where it rubbed against my skin, Holmes wielding the crop so dextrously that it might as well have been his fingers. The only word that I can use is that he played with me, stroking here and there so that I never knew exactly where the next touch would fall. But all of them caressed me in that most private and sensitive part of the body, and twice he brushed across my back opening, making me shiver with a tangle of desire and apprehension.

I was nearing ready to start begging aloud for direct stimulation of my member, still suspended in the air, unable even to press against the sheets of the bed as it would if I had I been lying more normally. Holmes laughed, and said, "My poor Watson. I believe I am going to try your patience sorely before we are done. But I should tell you I am very pleased so far, and as a reward I will let you up."

'Up' in this context meant his assistance in pulling me back onto my knees, able to rest my weight back on my heels instead of being suspended between hips and shoulders. Holmes looked down at my swollen purple shaft and thought for a moment.

"Normally I would not," he remarked, and already I knew better than to ask him what it was he was talking about, "but that is just too delectable to waste. Wait here." He exited into the sitting room.

I had little choice, really, kneeling there on the floor with my hands still bound behind me, but I assumed he meant not to move from that position. He nodded approvingly when he returned, kicking the low brown ottoman into the room and carrying a couple of linen napkins from the dining table. He placed the ottoman behind me and ordered me to sit upon it, then pulled me backwards by the shoulders until they, and my head, rested on the floor. My legs stuck out the other way, leaving my hips lifted and my straining member thrusting towards the ceiling.

Holmes knelt beside me and deftly swirled one of the napkins around the base of my member, tucking the other into his collar. I realised then what he had in mind: I was to be consumed for his pleasure as he might have done a cigar or cognac. He reached out with the crop and tapped me under the chin with it. "You do not climax. Not until after I am finished." With that he bent over me and eagerly swallowed down my entire length.

I could not help but cry out something, and received a sharp flick on the shoulder in warning. I bit my tongue as he sucked and mouthed vigorously along my length, the complete opposite of the restrained gentleman I usually faced across a dining table. He used tongue and teeth and lips, until I was twisting in almost an agony of pleasure, prohibited from expressing or returning it. I could not even have said if I wished it to continue or to end. 

I was holding back desperately on the climax I could feel beating at my reserve when Holmes sat back and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. "Very good, Watson. As you like, now." He circled the base of my member with his thumb and forefinger, smiled, and made exactly one firm stroke from base to tip. My seed burst from me as he reached the top, gouts of it, as my body shuddered in delight and relief. Holmes shook his head in mock dismay at the mess, and reached under my back to untie my wrists, saying only, "Clean yourself up." 

I did as he said, and looked up as I finished to find him waiting patiently for me. When he saw I was done he asked, "How are you feeling? If you have any comments or complaints, now is the time. I pressed you perhaps farther than I should have, but you performed admirably." I was ridiculously warmed by his praise; Holmes never gives it except in utmost seriousness. 

"I am well. Indeed, even better than well." Holmes passed me one of his own dressing gowns, since none of mine were handy. 

"Wait a moment." I paused in putting it on, as Holmes moved to stand close behind me. "Close your eyes." And the next moment I felt him touch me intimately, his erect member briefly freed of its confinement and standing vertically, pressing hard and thick between my buttocks. Even so recently completed a surge of lust burned in my veins and sped my heart. He rocked once or twice, slipping easily where traces of the oil remained on my skin, and I pushed back into him without thought, reflexively trying to increase the contact.

"Not now, " he whispered close into my ear. "Not now, but soon." And with that he pulled back, and I stifled a most unmanly whimper of disappointment. "Now!" he cried, voice louder and more cheery. "Now, Watson, I believe you deserve a little solicitude on my part, so if you will allow me to escort you to your own room, I should like to make sure that you are comfortable for the night. Unless you would prefer to stop for supper first? As I recall we skipped that part of the evening. My apologies, but I was quite distracted by the sight of you kneeling on the floor."

I suddenly realised I was ravenously hungry. "I should like to have supper. But do you mean you are going to be derailed from your serious thoughts every time I bend over?" My words were jesting, but I was not. 

"Ah, but earlier you had not agreed to my approaches. Now that I am sure of you, I can concentrate upon my work until another appropriate time presents itself."

The lewd double meaning in "presenting itself" struck us at the same time, and we both had great difficulty in maintaining our gentlemanly demeanour. Indeed, over supper I saw his lips twitching every time we made eye contact. Otherwise we behaved as always, except that Holmes was rather more attentive to my comfort than his usual self-absorption permitted.

I still did not know when he would finally allow me to touch him, or allow himself to possess me, but I had fewer questions now and more confidence that everything would happen in its own time, and be worth the wait.


	6. Chapter 6

I knew that Holmes was not finished shaping me to his desires. If he had asked simply for physical gratification I would already have agreed. Perhaps it was the very readiness of my acquiescence that made it insufficient for him. He desired my body; I had no doubt of that. But he had greater needs. He wanted my unmistakable, and complete, submission. 

================

It was a rainy evening, late in the autumn. I was alone in the sitting room of our quarters, comfortable in my chair by the fire, with my pipe and a book for company. Holmes had been with me for lunch, but had disappeared shortly afterwards and I had no idea of when he would return. This was common enough; I had no anxiety about his absence, although I did wonder idly if he was outdoors as the night grew colder.

I had just decided to close my book and go up to bed when I heard voices below in the hall. The sound was loud and cheerful, the rapid voices of excited men, interrupting each other in their eagerness to speak. Holmes and Lestrade, I deduced, and in a high good humour to boot. 

Doubtless they had scored some success, and would be keen on having an audience. I turned up the gas and added some more coal to the fire. I had never been able to work out why I was included in some of Holmes' cases and not others, but I was ever ready to hear the stories of adventures I had missed. 

Holmes opened the sitting room door and swept me a theatrical bow from the threshold. I laughed, cheered as always by one of his rare sparks of mischief. Lestrade followed, his normal dour countenance replaced by a very non-regulation grin. 

"Well, you two seem very pleased with yourselves," I remarked. "I hope you are going to tell me all about it."

"A drink first!" cried Holmes, pouring brandy into three tumblers, and passing two of them over. "A toast to the proper application of logic and truncheons." 

Lestrade and I both laughed in response. When they were able to stand each other's company long enough, success was almost inevitable; Holmes had his imagination and Lestrade his resources. I felt the smallest flicker of envy.

Perhaps Holmes saw it; perhaps not. But he breezed on, "Now, Watson! You must sit yourself, there, and allow us to give you an exact accounting. My work seems somehow unfinished without your admiration."

And for most of an hour my admiration is what they received, as they took turns describing their case for me. Slowly I became aware of something in Holmes's manner, in his division of attention between Lestrade and myself. When Holmes spoke, Lestrade looked back and forth between us, but when Lestrade was speaking, Holmes's eyes never left his face. 

He was all affability, at least to the Inspector. He played down his own role, bringing Lestrade's contributions to my attention. When I spoke, he got up and wandered about the room, poked up the fire, or interrupted me to ask Lestrade if he wanted more tea or another biscuit. 

This was not like Holmes. Rude and abrupt he could be, certainly, but usually only in the course of pursuing one of his unique chains of thought. It was as if he was trying to provoke me deliberately, and I was at a loss as to his motive. That he had a motive I was certain. But I did not care for his rudeness to me in what was, after all, my own home as well as his. And, with that thought, I realized that I need not put up with it. 

The next time the conversation paused, I stifled a yawn, and then pretended embarrassment. "Oh, forgive me. It's getting late, and I was on the point of going to bed when you arrived. I'm glad you came in to tell me of your evening, though. But now I really must take myself off before I fall asleep in my chair." 

Lestrade laughed cheerfully, not in the least offended, and wished us a good night. We stood and I saw him to the door, waiting while he settled his hat and coat. One last exchange of courtesies, and he was gone.

When I turned from closing the door, Holmes was staring at me from his position in front of the fire. I stared back, unsure why he would focus on me now when he had been all but ignoring me before. His voice was low when he spoke, so that I had to concentrate to hear him. 

"I confess myself surprised, John. Normally your manners to a guest are more correct, more in keeping with a gentleman." In the light of his own behaviour, I was amazed to hear him criticise me so. "You were quite rude to dismiss Lestrade so abruptly." 

His use of my Christian name alone caught my notice, since in the last ten years I have only heard him do so a handful of times. I stood motionless, hand still on the knob of the door, as he slowly approached me. His eyes surveyed me intently, and I could not look away as he came improperly close. He stopped short of touching me, but so near me that any move I made would cause me to touch him.

I knew now where he was going, into that dark and private counterpart to our public lives. Holmes stood directly in front of me and the door stood behind; he was allowing me a choice of action, a silent acknowledgement that my participation was voluntary. With the door at my back, if I wished to I could open it and leave.

I did not.

He reached out with two fingers and traced a line starting behind my ear, down the side of my neck and along my collar, curling under my tie as one might hook his fingers into a dog's collar. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

It took a moment for me to find my answer; a misstep at this early stage would shatter the illusion we were building. I should not meet his ire with irritation as if I was his equal; my role here was placatory. Contrition was wanted. "I am sorry, Holmes. I did not mean to embarrass you with my poor behaviour."

It must have been correct. He pressed forward suddenly, gripping my shoulders in both hands, shoving me against the door with the length of his body. His lips captured mine, his tongue demanding entry. His sudden change of mood caught me completely off guard, and I yielded without a second thought. Holmes' body was hard with muscle despite his slenderness, and his strength still surprised me after all this time. He possessed my mouth, and I shivered at the burn that ran up my spine at his insistent assault. 

Holmes pulled back, grey eyes glittering triumphantly down into mine, aware of my unvoiced surrender. "Into my room." He smiled coolly as he reached for his crop, holding my gaze and finding it by touch alone in the hatstand by the door. He gestured with one hand, and I did as he said.

I stopped in the middle of the room, standing on the small carpet that occupied most of the open floor space. Holmes dropped himself gracefully into the chair, seemingly relaxed until I looked at his eyes. One word: "Strip."

This I had done before, if only once. Surely this time I could do it better. I had never thought of removing my clothes with an audience, but with Holmes openly watching I tried to move steadily, without hurry or hesitation. I folded each item as I went, placing them in a neat stack out of the way. I was ready this time for the idea of being completely naked, and managed to continue my rhythm as I pulled off the last of my underclothes and put them with the rest.

Holmes rose from the chair and slowly circled me. He stroked my skin with one hand, touching me wherever his whimsy directed. With all my attention concentrated upon him, I heard his breathing change, becoming more pronounced. As he came back in front of me, I saw his eyes were dark with arousal and a tinge of colour suffused his cheekbones.

"A better performance than last time. These things are important, and should be done properly. Now stay put." Holmes walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

I was alarmed at being left like this, naked and exposed in the centre of the room. Holmes had never left me before; I saw now that I had been unconsciously depending upon him to cover for me somehow if we were discovered. I tried to compose myself, and in truth it must have been only a few minutes before he returned.

Holmes tossed my nightshirt and dressing gown past me onto his bed. As he moved further into view, I saw that he had changed his clothing also. He now wore a black brocade dressing gown, fitting closely to his slim form and just clearing the floor above his bare feet. It crossed normally in the front, but in the back was slit to well above the knee, so that I could see flashes of white skin as he moved.

"Down on your knees. You were rude to my guest; that calls for... five strokes."

"I said -" I began to apologise even as I lowered myself to the floor, but Holmes cut me off.

"Six. I did not say you could speak. Now be still." Ten minutes ago in the sitting room I had felt the flare of his desire, but now he was all calm self-possession again. He stepped back and considered me, taking time to savour the humility of my pose. I expected him to stop behind me, but he came to stand directly in front, and only inches away.

Holmes reached down and gripped my shoulder, pulling me forward and off my heels, until my forehead was pressed into the hollow of his thigh. He bent forwards over my back and prepared to deliver the allotted six lashes. I should have been apprehensive about the pain, but I was transfixed by the smell of him, warm and musky and so close. It reached some animal level inside of me, arousing me as powerfully as any physical touch could have done, however intimate.

He struck me, once, twice, three times. He was not holding back; the blows stung, and then burned, as he continued. The pain had me panting, my own breath bringing the maddening scent even more strongly to my senses. My hands rose to grasp his hips, but his voice snapped "No!" and I held them back with an enormous effort. 

I was not the only one affected. As close to him as I was, I could not miss the movement within his gown as his member swelled and stiffened. His pulse beat against my temple and his breath was loud in the confines of the room. Even his perspiring hand on my shoulder spoke of arousal, sweat forming on his palm as his fingers tightened.

"Please!" I cried, as the fourth blow landed.

The crop paused. "You are asking me to stop? After only four?"

"No, not that. I want to touch you!" I begged him, without a care for my dignity. Holmes laughed and ruffled my hair.

"I thought it would take more than a couple of strokes to dismay you! Hold still for the last two, and I will give you what you want. Now hold!" The crop landed again, and I trembled at the effort of keeping my position. Holmes was wrapped solely in his gown, fallen slightly askew with his exertions. I knew that with the slightest movement my tongue or my lips could touch his bare skin. Only the desire to obey held me still.

I managed it somehow. After the sixth blow, his hand grasped my hair and pulled my head back, mouth descending to fasten hungrily on mine. I was as aroused as he was now, responding eagerly to his avid demands. The throbbing heat across my buttocks stirred me in some dark place that it disturbed me to acknowledge, but I could not deny its effect on me.

Holmes pulled back, and looked at me with concern on his face. "What is it?" he whispered, holding my chin so that I could not look away.

I faltered, and looked down, but he gripped me more tightly and tilted my face upwards, insisting that I answer him. "I - ," and then I blurted out, "I am enjoying it." My face was scorching hot with embarrassment. 

Holmes threw his head back and laughed loudly. "Of course you are! I would not be doing it otherwise. John, my dearest, the taste for a bit of rough handling is only like a taste for strong drink or an extremely vile tobacco. It is best indulged with a view to company and circumstances, but is of harm to nobody, if handled with a measure of moderation and discretion."

"And you of course are the very soul of moderation, " I retorted before I thought. 

"Are you criticizing me?" he asked, voice cooler but eyes still warm. "At least you make no complaints of my discretion."

"No, no. I am making no criticism. Forgive me for speaking out of turn."

"Perhaps I will. This once." And he bent to resume his kiss, his graceful form stooping over me where I knelt. The crop dangled from his wrist, the loop end brushing the welts on my buttocks. I twitched and wiggled slightly in my place, and I sensed Holmes' amusement at my discomfort.

His free hand took my wrist and drew my hand inside his gown, planting it firmly on the back of his leg just above his knee. It was the first time I had touched him, and I could hardly believe it. His skin was silken and warm to my fingers, each muscle distinct underneath, and I traced upwards along the entire length of his thigh. 

"You're in a bold mood," he whispered, breaking our kiss. "It's just as well I like that in you. Now the other hand."

Elated, I repeated my slow stroke, back of knee to top of thigh, so I knelt at his feet with my arms clasping him. Holmes stretched up languidly, his hand absently pulling at the tie on his dressing gown. He pulled the robe open with deliberate slowness, teasing me with the gradual revelation of his body. 

White flesh against black fabric; chiselled lines against drape of cloth. I stared, desire a throbbing ache in my cock. "What are you waiting for?" he inquired softly.

"Your permission." I managed to gasp, riveted by the lure in front of me.

"Oh, _very_ good, John." One hand caressed me along the line of my jaw. "I always knew you were a quick learner. Now we shall have a proper test of your ability. Please me."

I was not sure exactly what he meant. Or more truthfully, I knew what he meant, but not how to go about it. As I hesitated, the crop stung me on the back of the shoulder. "Patience is for when you are told to wait. I told you to please me."

I recalled what he had done to me the last time, and leant in until I was close enough to kiss his shaft, a little awkwardly, then turned my head slightly to fit my mouth better to his shape. Holmes sighed, and his free hand stroked my hair. 

I was expecting the hardness, but not the heat. Intellectually I suppose I should have, with the strong flush of blood so close under the skin, but I was hardly thinking analytically. I licked, softly and then with more confidence, from base to tip, with the touch of his hand on my head urging me on. 

I was well used to my own member, the feel of soft skin slipping over hardness, like velvet over oak. But this was different, my tongue and lips vastly more sensitive than my hands, those underrated senses of smell and taste driving my actions. The savour of him intoxicated me. My tongue seemed to move of its own accord, curling to try and clasp his shaft, as would a hand. 

Another smack surprised me. The sudden flare of pain on my skin fanned the heat in my groin. But _why?_

I looked up at him. "More variety," he said succinctly. "You have imagination. Use it."

Very well. I decided that I had licence to move my hands, and slid them up his skin to cup his buttocks, flatter and more muscular than any woman's. I placed a kiss on the hollow inside the bony jut of his hip. His hand smoothed my hair again, and I understood I was doing as he wished.

I took one hand and curled it around his sac, squeezing most gently to roll the testes in my palm. Holmes made a deep sound of pleasure at my touch. I thought more of what he had done to me, and opened my mouth to take the end of his member completely inside. Even as the one giving gratification I groaned at the feel of it, warm and solid. Holmes pressed into my touch, and I took him deeper, caressing him with my tongue.

As I moved closer, my swollen shaft rubbed against his leg. It was an accident, that first time, but so pleasurable that I did it again on purpose. The crop struck, a hot sting laid neatly next to the previous one. Holmes did not speak; we both knew what I had done wrong.

He had already corrected me, once; but I ignored the warning in my need for contact. As I slid my hands around from hipbones to the small of his back I allowed my erection to touch him again. This time I was anticipating the blow, but it never fell.

"Stop," the single word crisp and cutting. "Back there, and kneel."

There was no resisting that tone; I moved as he directed. Holmes looked at me for a long moment before continuing.

"At this stage, there is only one sin that you can commit, and that is disobedience. And there are only two punishments. If the crop does not correct your fault, then I will send you out." Holmes indicated my nightclothes, lying across his bed. "I am not competing with you for dominance. You will freely give me your submission, or," and he paused to make sure he had my total attention, "I will find someone else who will."

It was as if a bucket of icy water had been poured over my head. I had never considered such an outcome. I could not bear to lose him now, not when I had touched and tasted him, not when I had heard him moan with the pleasure that I had given him.

"It is not something that I would do lightly, or without fair warning. You need not fear that any small mistake would attract such a penalty. But if you will not play by the rules I set, then that will be the final result."

My mind raced to find the perfect response, to show him how deeply his words had struck home. Then something about my position called up a memory of the East, where there are no chairs and even senior ministers to a king kneel or sit upon cushions. I placed the palms of both hands on the floor in front of me, and bowed in the Indian fashion, forehead lowering to touch between my hands and hips rising to allow for the strain in my back.

I could see only the boards in front of my nose, but I heard the slightest swish of cloth as Holmes moved to where I knelt, his own bare feet silent on the floor. He said nothing. I trembled a little and hoped desperately that I had done the right thing. Then I felt the sole of his foot, placed gently on the back of my neck, and knew that he had accepted my surrender. 

His voice had a strange harshness when he finally spoke. "Get up onto all fours. It is past time that I took you properly." I shuddered again, with lust this time, and no fear at all. 

Holmes moved around to kneel behind me, and his fingers traced down between my buttocks and brushed over my opening there. He must have been carrying something in the pocket of his robe, since I could feel the slickness of some oil or salve on his hand. "I would advise you to relax," he remarked conversationally. "I am going to have you regardless, but it will go more easily on you if you do." Then one finger pressed inwards, very slowly, and he entered me for the first time.

I believe Holmes made it easy for me, stroking in and out, caressing the tight ring of muscle with his lubricated fingers. I found I was rocking back against his hand, but he stopped me with a touch on my hip, and when I stilled he stroked my back, murmuring in approval. He was close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body near my bare skin, and the edges of his robe touched me in random places as he moved.

Even as I adjusted Holmes demanded more, slipping a second finger into me alongside the one already present. I gasped and closed my eyes, and Holmes laughed softly. "I truly am your first. I had wondered." He pressed a little harder, and I made a sound halfway between a moan and a whimper. 

I could not help but breathe in time with his motion; I was on fire, and suddenly the fingers were no longer enough. I wanted him entirely inside me, and now. "Please. Please, Holmes, please, more. Take me." I was begging, and we both knew it. 

"My decision, my dearest," he answered. "But you do seem very distracted. I shall have to take care of that, so that you are able to concentrate." He released me completely, and for one moment I was horribly disappointed. But his hand closed around my shaft instead, pumping it firmly as his long left arm wrapped around my hips and held me close back against him. 

I had used my hand on myself in his presence before; I should have guessed he had taken the chance to study me. Now he moved exactly as I would have done, without hesitation or awkwardness. His thumb rubbed over the head at the top of each stroke and his fingers held me firmly in their grip. Once or twice his grip loosened so that he could brush my sac, but he never released me completely.

It did not take him long; I had already been pushed so far into new territories of sensuality that my climax was only a few breaths away.

He must have been watching me most closely. As my completion passed and I went limp and relaxed in the glow that follows he leant in, left arm still solid around my hips, and pushed his thick hardness into my body. 

His fingers had been nothing compared to this. It stretched, it stung, it burned, it was wonderful and perfect. Holmes pulled back, and I almost reached behind myself to stop him, but then he entered me again, a little further this time. I realised he was still holding back, still proceeding gradually for my sake. 

I was impatient to have it all, but I had learnt my lesson and allowed Holmes to work at his own pace. Each stroke was one degree faster and deeper, and I no longer felt as if I was being split in half but only an intensely satisfying fullness.

Finally Holmes was moving freely and without restraint, driving into me as I braced myself with my arms and pressed back to meet him. His breathing was harsh and noisy, and his skin sweaty. His hands gripped my hips, fingers digging hard into my flesh, just as my newfound craving demanded. 

With a last low, guttural noise he climaxed, hips slamming against me and a sudden stinging heat inside my body. His hands fell onto my shoulders to support his weight, as he slowly recovered himself. After a long silence he pulled back from me and rose, wrapping his dressing gown fastidiously around his form, then fetched my nightshirt and offered me a hand in rising from the floor.

"My dear Watson, that was extraordinary." I noted the change in his address. "I hope that you are not regretting our arrangement."

"I have no regrets," I replied. "Although I would appreciate it if you did not rouse me tomorrow morning, at least until I have had sufficient sleep." I looked sideways at him as I finished making myself presentable. "Your requirements are rather strenuous."

"On that point, I have a gift for you." Holmes took a book from his dresser and handed it to me. "I acquired it from the library of the house Lestrade and I raided tonight. After all, the owner can hardly complain that it has gone missing."

"Thank you, Holmes." I answered automatically, turning towards the lamp. Holmes reached across my arm and held the volume shut before I could open it.

"Take it with you; look at it at your leisure. Consider it earned by your progress tonight." Holmes smiled lazily, eyes half-lidded. "Though if you continue at this rate, I shall need to find some more tokens of my appreciation." I returned his smile, and took myself to my own room.

I turned up the lamp on my nightstand to examine my new possession. It was a small volume of illustrations, of the most startling nature. The figures were all male, arranged in twos and threes in a variety of positions from the obvious to the surely impossible. I turned a few pages, torn between embarrassment and avid curiosity. 

I made sure to conceal it well before I went to sleep.


End file.
